A poem in a home of windows of unclear visibility, through which mist of longings peeps, of grey curtains of thoughts where forgetfulness, sometimes creeps and of a roof which is looked upon only now and then just to realise that constellations aren't the inheritance of closed rooms but the sky, is but a dream. Through the walls who differ in sight, but not in touch, a voice echoes which is unable to distinguish between wishes and wants and is unable to relate between necessities and needs. The clock ticks, the fan revolves, the toaster creaks, the wind chime shakes to remind me, that I'm finally at home, which wasn't one. A poem in a home, which wasn't one... 💙 Day 41of #100poemsfor100days My hashtag : #100scarletstairs Welcome to the day 29 of #YoPoDiMo or the YourQuote Poetry Diversity Month i.e. September.
